Dead Is the New Sexy
by avcngrs
Summary: One month after the OD on the plane, Sherlock's hectic and desperate as ever as his trail on Moriarty runs cold. John is busy and distant, him and Mary starting their life with their new daughter, when John goes missing unexpectedly. Then tables are turned, Sherlock's life hangs in the balance, and Moriarty's keeping true to his promises. (Original title: Burning the Heart)
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** I do not own Sherlock, that's BBC's honor. I based the six and a half years between TGG and TAB by guessing one and half years for each Sherlock season, plus the two years Sherlock spent hidden. Sorry this chapter feels a little more choppy than I wanted it to. Just trying to clarify the setting and get the story rolling. Also, important note: I leave for Europe in the next day or so, therefore don't expect a fast update. I promise one will come. Please review! :)

 **Original Title:** Burning the Heart

 **Dead Is the New Sexy**

 **CHAPTER 1**

"Kill you? N… no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No no no no no. If you don't stop prying… I will BURN you. I will burn… the HEART out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we know that's not quite true."

 _ **Six and a half years later…**_

"DID YOU MISS ME?! DID YOU MISS ME?! DID YOU MISS ME?!" Jim Moriarty frothed at the mouth, twisting violently in his straight jacket. Sherlock walked around him in a smooth manner, keeping just out of reach. Every pounce Moriarty took towards Sherlock resulted in an echoing, electrifying clank of chains. He continued screaming the question, unrelentless on Sherlock's ears. When Sherlock, stoic and upright, came directly in front of Moriarty, he paused and truly considered the pitiful sight in front of him. Locked up in this circular stone cell, Moriarty had developed bloodshot eyes, dark circles, greying hair, yellowing skin, bony features; all signs of distressed aging. Of someone near death.

Of someone who should be dead.

Barely a whisper, Sherlock's muttered, "How are you alive?"

The screeching ceased. Moriarty smiled evilly, with fire burning in crazed eyes. "I never died, Sherlock. How could I? There's a difference between being locked up in your mind palace and six feet under. Oh how sweet happily ever afters are. It's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. The fall is rather enjoyable. It's the landing. The happily ever after," Moriarty spat. Then his face softened and he began twirling around. "Too bad you didn't die when Mary shot you. Bad girl, Mary. It was fun to have you here. Death isn't that bad anyways. For now it's just a figment of imagination. DID YOU MISS ME?! DID YOU MISS ME?!"

The raged shouts commenced. Sherlock closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was facing the wall of 221B Baker Street. The walls were covered in notes, pictures, maps, and anything else related to cases taking place after _A Study in Pink_. Even the smiley face was buried under photographs of murders. The floor, also, had not been spared. Documents were littered everywhere. It was here Sherlock Holmes sat, surrounded by it all. The difference between his mind palace and reality had become blurred during endless hours locked up in the lonely London apartment.

As he rose, he stretched out the stiffness in his lanky form. _Did you miss me?_ continued ringing in Sherlock's head as he stepped into the kitchen to make tea. Of course, it was void of food but stocked plentiful of tea. Over the last month, food was neglected and cigarettes exhausted. Placing the pot on the stove, Sherlock grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He sighed deeply, inhaling the comforting nicotine. Ever since the overdose-plane-exportation fiasco, both Mycroft and John had been breathing down Sherlock's neck about the usage of drugs. After about a week, they had finally let up, being called to other duties. After all, Mycroft had a country to run. And John now possessed a job just as hard.

His and Mary's baby had been born just three days after Sherlock ODed. They named her Sheryl ("That's the only female version of Sherlock we could come up with!" "I told you John, Sherlock is a woman's name!"), and Sherlock was properly appointed godfather. Nothing had ever made Sherlock feel more special than being at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 3:54 am to watch John Watson become a father. They had wrapped her in a little pink blanket, and after John and Mary had both coddled her, John handed her to Sherlock. Staring into those vibrant blue eyes, Sherlock smiled. He smiled for a very long time. Sheryl Johnna Watson. Never would Sherlock have dreamed of being a best man, a godfather, and a best friend to the most honorable man he had ever met. And now that honorable man had become a father and the head of a beautiful family.

That's why Sherlock had to find Moriarty. If Jim returned to London and somehow harmed John's family, Sherlock would never find it in him to forgive himself. So far, the Watson family was content and safe and he vowed to keep it that way. He would commit real suicide before letting Moriarty even breathe on Sheryl.

The teapot whistled. In almost a mechanical fashion he brewed the tea before taking a cup to stare by the window. Setting it on his laptop, he let it cool as he finished his cigarette. The England sky was smothered in fog, giving a dreary haze on the city. Busy as ever, the streets of London seemed unaffected as people rushed to and fro. It was early, maybe six.

So far, Sherlock's search for Jim Moriarty had proved unsuccessful. The IP address of the video that was broadcasted was a dead end. It lead to one of the more popular coffee shops in London which had hundreds of people milling in it everyday. With Lestrade's help, Sherlock analyzed the security footage. Unfortunately it was a cheap model, only storing 24 hours of tape before refreshing. From what they were able to view, no Moriarty showed. Determined to link the video to something, Sherlock had dug up information on all the cases John and him had ever taken together. He remembers all of them clearly, but he still lay it all out to double check that _he didn't miss something_. One whole month, and no leads. Sherlock was not happy.

Hidden somewhere in the 8.63 million residents of London, Moriarty was waiting.

/

The Watson home was quiet at 5:45 in the morning. Everyone was sleeping, including the newborn. They had moved into Mary's home, planning to save money and purchase a larger family house in the suburbs of London. Although Mary's apartment was very nice and workable, the rooms were now bursting with gifts from the wedding and baby shower. As new parents, they were still figuring things out. Books on how to raise a child were laying open in disarray on the kitchen table.

Mary slept deeply despite John snoring. She was curled up against his back, grateful for a few hours of shut-eye after dealing with the baby 24/7. John was buried in pillows, sheets kicked away from restless nights.

A small wail suddenly erupted from the bedroom next door. John woke up slowly, his eyelids weighing a hundred tons. To his surprise, Mary hadn't woken up. However, she calmed Sheryl two hours earlier so it was John's turn anyways. Carefully, he shifted away from Mary and ran fingers through disheveled hair as he headed towards his daughter. She was crying in the crib, arms flailing. As he squinted in the darkness, he couldn't locate any formula Mary might have left from earlier. The nightlight flickered, basically useless. "Bloody cheap," John muttered stumbling towards the kitchen. He felt along the counter, guiding himself to the fridge. His eyes protested the brightness of the refrigerator light and he grabbed the first bottle of formula he saw. Because of a tip read in a parenting book, him and Mary kept bottles of formula ready to go at all times. John placed it in the microwave. The whirring sounded thunderous in the silent house, and his eyes continually shifted to the hallway, anxious it might arouse Mary. His phone was on the counter and he checked it while the appliance counted down. There was only one message, from Greg Lestrade.

 _Hi John. Wondering if you want to go out for drinks soon to escape "married life." Call me in the morning._

The text was received at 12:10 am. Lestrade had probably been working on paperwork overtime, bored and lonely. John smiled. Bring a father proved demanding, and his contact with friends thinned. Even with Sherlock.

His attention returned to the microwave as the final seconds were displayed. 6...5...4...3...2… To avoid the loud beep, John pressed the open button before the microwave reached one. Grabbing the warm bottle of formula, his other hand shoved the phone in his pajamas pocket subconsciously.

While holding Sheryl and letting her suck on the bottle, John decided to send a text to Sherlock. They'd been out of contact the last few days and John winced as he thought about the unfathomable havoc Sherlock might have performed on 221B in that time. And to himself.

With one hand John typed a new message to Sherlock, _How are things? Any news?_ Just then Sheryl gave an adorable, sweet cooing noise and John added, _Sheryl sends her love._

Barely 30 seconds after the text was received, John's phone chirped.

 _ANNOYING. NO. Hi Sheryl. SH_

It was only when referring to Sheryl did Sherlock use lowercase in his texts. John replied, _Mind if I stop by today for a cup of tea?_

This time, Sherlock didn't respond as quickly. After five minutes of no response, John sent a follow up text, _Sherlock?_

He waited again, placing Sheryl in her crib and watching her drift off into dreams. Right as entering his bedroom, John's phone chirped.

 _BUSY HIDING CIGARETTES. SH_

John took that as his idea of visiting for tea had been accepted.

/

John struggled to knock on the door of 221 Baker Street, his arms full of groceries. Mrs. Hudson's face lit up at the sight of John, and let him in with a delighted voice. She offered him tea, breakfast, anything. "...it's been rather slow around here with Sherlock locked up up there. I haven't seen him in about a week. But please let me help with those bags," she reached out.

John nodded, "No thanks. I'm heading straight up anyways. I'm sure the fridge is empty."

"Except for maybe a severed head," Mrs. Hudson sighed, and John smiled at her matter-of-fact tone. For all the grief Sherlock gave her, she cared about him unconditionally.

"I wouldn't be surprised," John said, starting to make his way up the staircase.

"Dear," Mrs. Hudson placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, "be careful. I've been able to smell constant cigarette smoke even downstairs."

Now that she mentioned it, John noticed it too. Another sigh escaped him. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson."

She gave a weak smile and returned to the kitchen as John made it to the door of Sherlock's flat. Arms growing more and more tired, he shouted, "Sherlock! Door, please!"

No response. "SHERLOCK!"

A muffled voice answered, "It's open."

"I KNOW BUT….argh," John gave up and precariously opened the door himself.

The sight that greeted him was more haphazard than expected. Never before had the apartment looked so much as if a paper tornado had hit it. Disregarding the documents on the floor, he made his way to the kitchen and deposited the bags in his arms to the counter.

Sherlock hadn't moved since he entered. John was surprised to see him sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed and smoke rolling off his lips. What did surprise him was the platter of tea already prepared, resting on the table.

Shaking his head, he began to unload the recently purchased food. He shifted around "experiments" in the fridge to make room. During the process, his gaze shifted towards his former flatmate. The detective seemed skinnier, if possible. Dark circles showed more thinking than sleeping had occurred. His hair was wet, so he must have showered. And he was in fact, fully clothed.

The smoke continued.

John threw an apple at Sherlock, whose eyes shot open as it collided with his stomach. He glared at John, eyebrows furrowed with the expression of _What was that for?_ John was relieved Sherlock didn't drop his cigarette in surprise. Overtaken with papers, 221B was a fire hazard to all of London.

"That's an apple. It's something we call food. You should really try it sometime," John said sarcastically.

Sherlock hmphed, returning to his cigarette.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Hmm," Sherlock replied.

John knew that was the best answer he was gonna get. "Well I've made plans with Lestrade tonight for dinner and drinks, and I told him you're coming. So if you refuse to eat now, I will force a proper meal down your throat."

"Transport," Sherlock said slowly. John could read the signs. The detective was high. "I thought you wanted to come for tea, not to bitch me out."

"Fine," John said, throwing the last box of cereal on the top of the cupboard. "C'mon over."

John sank down into his familiar old chair, and began pouring tea. Sherlock joined him opposite, extinguishing the butt of the cigarette in a nearby ashtray. Sherlock picked up his cup of tea. The apple lay forgotten on the sofa.

"So what exactly is all this, then?" John motioned to the mess.

"Information regarding every case we've ever taken together."

And sure enough, John recognized pictures of corpses of cases from six years ago. Even printed out pages of his blog was attached to the wall with tacks. "Don't you have this all stored in your mind palace?"

"Some has been deleted. I've re-entered it obviously. There just has to be something. Something I've missed. Something connected to Moriarty," Sherlock took a sip of tea, hiding his face.

"Still no leads?" John asked, failing to hide the surprise in his voice.

Sherlock gave him a _John is stupid_ look. Abruptly rising up, he lit another cigarette at the window. _Oh God,_ thought John, _he just finished one. If he's going through them this fast…_

"Moriarty has fallen off the grid, just as he has the last couple years. He has fallen into the form of a shark, waiting patiently in the abyss of the sea. Sharks like to play with their prey before they strike. The video that terrorized London, was a playful nudge, and not just for me. I'm not the only Drama Queen in England, I'm afraid. Moriarty will bite soon, and it will be bloody." Sherlock spoke in the same tone he had about Magnussen not that long ago. It sent shivers down John's spine as the mastermind continued. "Through his network, Moriarty has become familiar with pressure points. Undoubtedly he knows mine."

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Me," he muttered.

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped towards John. "Oh. In a sense."

"But that's, that's what Magnussen used," John stuttered, remembering the instance of the arranged fire.

"That's not the only thing he used," Sherlock continued to smoke.

"The Redbeard thing, right?"

Once again, Sherlock twisted towards him abruptly in a _How did you deduce that_ gaze _._

"It's been mentioned," the doctor shrugged.

"Something has to be Moriarty's pressure point. The thing I've missed."

"You think, there's something connected in all the bloody cases we've ever taken, that leads to Moriarty."

"Yes," said Sherlock, matter of fact.

"That's bloody insane!"

"Isn't it?" Sherlock's lip twitched upward.

/

"Well it's about time you two blokes showed up!" Lestrade shouted cheerfully as Sherlock and John entered the bar. Beer was already ready and shoved into John and Sherlock's hands. Happily, John accepted and him and Lestrade yapped away about their lives. Sherlock stayed distant, barely sipping the alcohol and critically analyzing the Friday night crowd. Cheating spouses, homosexuals, drunks, and college kids filled the bar. Thinking of Moriarty, he envisioned the scenerio of this bar being affected by a bombing. First, the windows would explode, sending shards of glass into people's bodies. The shock would hit next, blowing people off their feet and onto the floor. Fire would erupt almost instantaneously. By now, screaming would commence. The hardwood floor already drenched in blood. The roof collapses next. Sherlock would look for John and Lestrade first, underneath rubble and dust. Sirens. Shouting. Screaming. Pandemonium.

And the bar wouldn't be the only place. London Eye. Parliament. Tower Bridge. Buckingham Palace. Museums. And London wouldn't be the only city. Paris. Rome. Berlin. Anything of worldly importance.

Moriarty would laugh.

"Sherlock. Sherlock?" a familiar voice snapped Sherlock out of his haze. His intensely sharp eyes dilated to John Watson's face, not four inches from his. Sherlock pushed him away.

"Sorry just… thinking," Sherlock drawled, ignoring John and Greg's concerned stares. "I'm going home. It's late."

"It's eight o'clock!" Lestrade exclaimed, but a look from John made him add, "Of course. You probably have a, um, case or something."

"Or something," Sherlock replied, placing some money on the bar and walking out, rearranging the collar of his Belstaff so it stood straight up in his usual fashion.

/

It was approaching midnight. Sherlock sat motionless, engaged with his mind palace. Thoughts went back to cases over the years. But specifically the cases where John was harmed for some villainous criminal to get a step closer to the great Sherlock Holmes.

His mind palace was vividly recollecting John almost burning in the firework party's fire when his phone rang.  
Mary. Odd.

He answered immediately, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Hi Sherlock," Mary's voice was shaky. _Distressed_ , Sherlock deduced. "It's Mary. I was wondering if John is with you. He hasn't come home yet and Lestrade said he left the bar hours ago."

Sherlock froze. "N...no I haven't been in contac-"

A dull buzz interrupted him. "Hold on Mary I just received a text."

He opened it.

 _I owe John Watson a fall, Sherlock. JM._

Another vibration.

 _C'mon angel. Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. For old times' sake. JM_

The phone clattered to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes** : THIS UPDATE IS COMING FROM LUCERNE, SWITZERLAND! :D I worked on this on the plane so therefore here's an earlier update than I originally planned.

To clarify a few details about the story: all ships in here are cannon. There's suggestive Johnlock and Sherolly, but even BCC does that. Expect some good ol' whump to start soon. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!

 **Dead Is the New Sexy**

 **CHAPTER 2**

Déjà vu. The sensation filled every of Sherlock's senses while climbing the stairs towards the hospital rooftop. Hand poised on the handle, he hesitated stepping onto the roof. This time there were no carefully calculated plans, no keywords, no brother or homeless network informed. If Moriarty was waiting, it would be a battle of raw wits.

His first step after opening the door surprised him.

Moriarty was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't on the ledge playing some iconic 70's song; he wasn't in the middle with a gun waiting on his tongue; he wasn't on the ledge ready to jump. There was only one object of interest. A package, sitting atop a portion of bloodstained concrete, where Moriarty had originally "shot himself."

 _Stupid, stupid!_ Sherlock mentally slapped himself. A replaying of events would be dull and pointless to soothe Moriarty's boredom.

No, he had thought of something new. Something fresh.

He tiptoed towards the package. He's a bomber, remember? John's voice from years ago echoed in his head and he hesitated for half a step.

There was nothing written on the envelope. But as soon as he picked it up, he knew what was inside. The weight, the shape.

He ripped the flap.

Inside was an outdated iPhone 4 with a bulky pink case.

He waited. But a call or five pips never came.

There was no pass code on the phone and he slid his thumb towards the right. With a click, it revealed a picture of John Watson in someplace dark. Even with the picture's poor quality, Sherlock could make out bindings on John's wrists and a gag in his mouth. There was blood on his face and arms from unknown origins. Ignoring the subject of the photograph, Sherlock searched the background for clues. But the picture was too blurry to zoom in on anything.

He rushed downstairs. With his equipment, he might be able to find fingerprints.

Molly started when Sherlock Holmes dramatically darted through the hallway so late at night, coat flailing.

"Sherlock!"

He ignored her, slamming the door to the lab behind him.

Although she was on her way out, clocking out for the night, she decided to see what Sherlock was urgently attending to. She knocked quietly on the door to no avail. Entering, she found Sherlock analyzing a woman's phone with a handheld microscope. The phone was familiar…

"Shut up," Sherlock's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Pardon?" she stepped closer.

"Oh. Molly. Not you," he glanced up.

"Whose phone is that?"

"I don't know."

"Is it for a case?"

"More a… chase."

"Is everything alright?"

Sherlock stared at Molly. Gentle eyes, thick hair braided to the side, a worried visage. She truly was beautiful, and in the past acted as a friend when even John wasn't there.

"It's Moriarty, Molly. He's back," Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, I saw him on TV. Not pleasant, really."

"He has John."

"What do you mean?"

"He's abducted him. He left this on the rooftop," Sherlock motioned to the phone.

"Any fingerprints? Dirt?"

"No. I didn't really expect any. Excuse me. I have to make a call," Sherlock pulled out his phone and strode to the other side of the room.

While Sherlock was busy, Molly sent a text to Lestrade. _Did you know John's missing? Sherlock's distraught. Molly Hooper_

She waited for a reply, listening to Sherlock's voice on the line. She couldn't make out specific words, really, just the tone. Cheerful. Sherlock was acting.

Her phone dinged.

 _Yes, Mary contacted me last night. I had been with John at a bar until 10, I guess he never made it home. I can't put out a missings person alert until 2 days of no one seeing or hearing of him but I'll try to pull some strings. Tell Sherlock police are searching._

Molly didn't. If this was really Moriarty, the police would be completely and utterly useless. Sherlock already knew that.

"GREENWICH!" Sherlock suddenly exploded.

"What?"

"John's in Greenwich!"

Molly was flabbergasted. "How?"

Sherlock paused, considering if he had the time to explain. Not really, but this was Molly, and he will always be in debt to Molly. He took a deep breath and ranted, "One of the first things I did with the phone was take it out of the case. Apple phones always have a serial number engraved on the back, this one not being different. The phone is brand new judging by the condition, bought specifically for this job no doubt. The picture on it," he flashed her the picture of John. Mary barely had time to wince before Sherlock continued. "is poor quality. Signature of iPhones dating before 2014. So, the picture was taken on this specific phone. They've only had John for a couple of hours, meaning the picture had to be taken recently, probably just after receiving the phone before one of Moriarty's men dropped it off here. Moriarty wouldn't have done this himself. No he's too high up on his throne for busy work. So he told one of his goons to get an iPhone 4. How to acquire one? The Internet would be the obvious choice, but he doesn't have time for shipping. And if he bought it online, it wouldn't have a carrier. This one did, but the sim card was removed. He could steal it, but it would take time to hack and reset and not many people in London carry such an outdated model. Which means he had to acquire it through his personal mobile carrier. What's the largest carrier in Europe? EE. I called EE posing as the concerned brother of a mentally disturbed sister who ordered an iPhone 4 and was supposed to pick it up today. She didn't know of one but called nearby stores and got a hit in Greenwich. A phone matching this serial number was picked up today at 7 p.m. at a EE store in Greenwich. Leading to the point, Greenwich is currently the closest clue we have to John's location at the moment."

Molly gave a sad smile, admiring his deduction. "Then go. Go find your doctor. Do you need me to do anything?"

Sherlock's foot was halfway out the door, mechanically tying his navy scarf around his neck.

"Stay safe."

And he was gone.

/

"Johnny-boy. Wakey wakey."

An irritating voice pulled John Watson from sweet sleep. The first thing that hit him was the pain. A throbbing pounded in his skull and there was a searing sharpness in his left shoulder. His hands were caught. He twisted and pulled. Then hazily opened his eyes and looked down. They were confined to the arms of a wooden chair by zip ties _. Bloody classic_ , John thought. Underneath him was rough concrete; the walls weren't different. They were dirty and uninviting, and some red parts looked distinctly like old, dried blood.

"Johnny-boyyyy," the voice sang.

Raising his head, he came face to face with Jim Moriarty.

John tried to shout, but was constricted by a strip of cloth in his mouth.

"There there, Johnny-boy don't get too excited. There's no bombs this time, anyways. Well, that's not entirely true. There will be bombs, lots of bombs. So many bombs. But not as a specific gift for you."

John squirmed. Moriarty chuckled.

"I'm sorry, I just have to ask… one little question… DID YOU MISS ME?!"

The outburst shocked John, and he jumped despite his bindings.

"Sorry, sorry, that was rude," Moriarty gave the impression of a scolded child. "Besides, I've been working on my manners. Those Holmes brothers have such good manners, it's really inspired me."

John finally stilled, giving into his incapacitation.

"Don't they inspire you, Johnny-boy? Angles, the both of them. Do you want me to tell you what Sherlock said on that roof that day?"

Before he could stop it, an image of Sherlock lying lifeless on a sidewalk, face splattered with scarlett, entered John's mind. He struggled again.

"I said 'Nah. You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels.' And he had said," Jim paused to laugh unnaturally, "'Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them.'"

Moriarty continued his sadistic laugh.

"But Sherlock has to be an angel. He came back to life, didn't he? But then again, so did I. You don't think I'm an angel, do you? That makes me the demon. Every fairytale has to have a good, old-fashioned villain."

/

"Greenwich, please," Sherlock spoke sharply; he possessed neither the patience or time for an argument. The taxi cab door gave a metallic crash as Sherlock slammed it shut.

"Wanna be a little more specific, mate?" the driver asked while the car began to roll.

"Nope, anywhere in Greenwich is good. Now keep your mouth shut and step on it," Sherlock passed a twenty pound note up front.

"You've got it."

The ride was silent, but not as fast as Sherlock hoped. However, it was out of the driver's control. The bars just closed, resulted in extra taxis and chaotic drivers. Traffic on this route probably meant a forty minute or more drive to Greenwich. Sherlock cursed under his breath.

A plethora of scenarios had already passed through the ingenious mind palace of the detective. The only reason Moriarty had captured John was to get to him. John's boring to him otherwise, except to mock him as Sherlock's pet. It was the first move to a game of chess. Moriarty had shifted around pawns, to take a direct strike at Sherlock's queen. The white queen was taken by a black rook, hidden out of sight before sinking its teeth into its prey. Too preoccupied with the black king, the white king hadn't been focusing on protecting his most valuable piece. _Careless. Selfish. Stupid._ There was only one weakness the black king held; he possessed more pawns than anything. A lack of loyal rooks, bishops, and Knights would harm him in the end. Moriarty was wealthy, his money spreading across Europe, Asia, and parts of the Middle East. That kind of power bought you protection. Cheap protection, though. Sherlock was richer with John, Lestrade, Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and his homeless network as his fortress. But there was trick in this board that not even endless hours of chess could prepare him for. Chess was supposed to end when a player's king was captured by his opponent.

Except in this case, both kings were ghosts.

/

"I liked Magnussen's touch," Moriarty said. He had yet to shut up. "He was a good asset. Smart, but not brilliant. He remembered facts. High schoolers do that. One action of his I particularly enjoyed was when he flicked you on the cheek."

Recalling the embarrassment, John flinched.

"It's amazing what Sherlock did for you. For your wife. Even after she shot him. It's like a chain-reaction. Shoot Sherlock, he shoots Magnussen. Aren't you surrounded by trouble makers. Maybe you'll pull the trigger next," Moriarty smiled. "Picture that. John Watson, the murderer. You'd kill for Sherlock, for Mary, for _Sheryl_."

Pure fire flashed in John's eyes. Nothing can happen to Sheryl. And nothing ever will, if John possessed any power in the manner.

He knew he didn't stand a chance against Moriarty. Not in brains. Brawn, definitely. The protective instincts of a father and husband had the power to strengthen muscles in a superhuman way. Hysterical strength, John recalled from his medical university days. When caught in a crisis, the human body concerts fear into adrenaline which results in ordinary people being able to perform extraordinary tasks such as lifting cars. If Moriarty so much as looked at Sheryl, John Watson would rip his head off - literally. John smiled.

"Why are you doing that… that smirk," Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "Something I said? Oh, I see, you're thinking of my death. One problem however, I don't stay dead," his words were venomous. "And you won't kill me. Your tiny, normal brain," he flicked John's cheek, "can't fathom my plans. For example, where do you think your beloved detective is right now?"

 _Oh no_.

"On the way to rescue his lost puppy. It'll be a hell of a show. And if you don't comply with my lead, your family will face… results. Babies are so cute. I would hate anything to happen to that bitty, witty, little face.

"Sherlock and I are a package deal, John Watson. What good is a hero without something to overcome? We must stay together, 'till death does us part. But we all know how well that worked out the last time. The truth is, if I live, he lives. If I die, he dies. If I resurrect, he resurrects. One can't survive if he's not complete. Did you know that? Sherlock Holmes completes _me_. And this living is getting awfully boring. I owed him a fall, and I gave it to him. The only problem? We didn't land. Now I owe Sherlock an execution."

When he stood, James Moriarty emptied of all madness. He seemed more like a gentlemen than ever before, just another London business man pacing in a suit. When his voice filled the dank room once more, it sounded tired. "Do you remember our first encounter? The first time we met? You were rather preoccupied by being a detonator, I guess. During our little talk I promised Sherlock that I was going to burn the _heart_ out of him."

He paused.

"What gives Sherlock his heart anyways? He's barely human, like me. Not caring about the nonsense emotions of petty people living their petty lives. It's the thrill of the chase that keeps him going. But that's his mind, not his heart."

Another pause.

"The answer is you, Johnny-boy. John Watson gives Sherlock Holmes a heart. So to burn the angel's heart, that means I'll have to burn _you_."


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: Hello! I'm on the plane back to the US while writing this and also watching SW:TFA. Europe was incredible. I visited Switzerland, Italy, France, and Spain. If you want to see pictures, my instagram is . Our tour definitely didn't include time for writing though, so here's a late update. Please review! Thanks so much for the follows and favorites. :) I'll try to get this story posted on Ao3 soon.

 **Dead Is the New Sexy**

 **CHAPTER 3**

Sherlock overpaid the cabbie, shoving whatever money he had inside his pocket to the driver's hand. Greenwich seemed more crowded than usual, especially for the time of day, and Sherlock was continually bumped into. His hand instinctively slid into his pocket over his wallet, aware of thieves.

The phone leading to Greenwich was just that - a lead. He had no idea where in Greenwich to look first.

Think dramatic, Sherlock talked to himself.

Someone slammed into him. He almost lost his balance, and looked down to find a woman brushing off her clothing. Beige petticoat, work slacks, office heels, long hair frizzled from the moisture. She wore red lipstick that corresponded with her nails. A very specific shade of scarlet.

"Sorry, I was looking at my phone. Are you alright?" she smiled at him.

Sherlock turned to leave, spinning on his heel. "Fine."

An iron grip enclosed on his shoulder, and pulled his ear towards her mouth. She leaned on him, pretending to adjust her shoes.

Her cheery cheery voice filled his ears, "A little _overstuft_ in Greenwich, today, isn't it?"

"What did you say?" Sherlock hissed.

"Ah, nothing important," she smiled, and straightened his collar for him. "Sorry again."

The unknown woman disappeared into the crowd, a certain word she said echoed in Sherlock's head.

O-V-E-R-S-T-U-F-T.

The proper term was overstuffed. This was old English, and not a coincidence. The world was too small for those. Even their running into each other was a hired job.

She was wearing second day clothes, but still looked well-kept. Creasing in her jacket showed she had been carrying a backpack. Someone accustomed to light travel. Fake accent. Obviously American; why fake an accent in the first place? Who'd care if she was American? Oh. Of course. Agent. She was a spy of some sort, secret service. Not FBI. They like to flash their badges. Posture wasn't CIA. She wore fancy, expensive French perfume: "Iris" by Fragonard. Retired then, some connected branch of government service. Moved on to private work. Small jobs in foreign fields. Just finding something to pass the time and pay the bills.

She had been paid to say those words.

Overstuft; noun. The concept of putting too much stuff into one area. Overstuft; a magic trick involving Oreo cookies.

 _No. Stupid, stupid._

There has to be something with significant meaning. Something staring him straight in the face.

 _Think, think! John's life is on the line and you can't even process a word._

"Argh!" He shouted out loud, bringing him to reality.

Shocked, people avoided him in the sidewalk, giving him strange looks.

Then, it hit him. Of course.

The only church nearby whose name originated from being a burial pit. In 1665, churches were used for the disposal of bodies of those struck by the Black Death. The churchyards were full of decaying, diseased bodies. One unknown person had used the word "overstuft" to describe it.

And that church was in this city.

St. John's Blackheath.

How sickly ironic.

The church was about a mile away; a cab would take longer than his own pace. With that, he sprinted. It didn't matter how many people he crashed into. It had never mattered. Other people's opinions of him were useless. Except for John's.

Yes, he was a selfish, despicable git sometimes but he had a weakness for sentiment. It was a mistake; sentiment. A mistake Sherlock had tried to fix, voiding himself of feelings, becoming a machine as John had so lovingly put it once. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't erase the loyalty built inside him for John Watson.

Maybe loyalty _was_ a weakness. But if that meant making sure John was alive and safe, he didn't care.

The church was pitch black, but he could make out its silhouette against the midnight sky. He was still a great distance away, but he was one step closer to John. Every step was a step closer to John.

He braced himself for whatever awaited him behind those church doors. He never was a religious man and never would be. Bursting into a church at such a profound hour of the day was the closest he had ever experienced of a spiritual revolution.

Because beating Moriarty was his religion.

It had consumed him.

His speed caused him to practically slam into the door when he approached. It was unlocked; he took one deep breath, already panting, and stepped inside. There were some candles lit as the only light source. Inside it seemed like a typical medieval church; intricate artwork, old wooden pews, glorified images of the Bible decorating the walls.

No John.

He stood flabbergasted in disbelief. Part of him knew it wouldn't be that easy. But to be standing here, knowing he had fallen for another one of Moriarty's bloody _games_. He was sick of them. Dancing around the point. Chasing like a madman on a wild goose hunt through the streets of London. Having to comply to Jim's rules. It wasn't boring, he had learned to enjoy riddles just as Moriarty warned him to.

Now, he was sick of them.

Sick of being used, toyed with, taken as a tool. Sick of John being used as a tool.

Furious, he searched the church. Despite his anger, he contained himself from damaging anything. Evidence of his presence here wasn't necessary.

He searched hymn books, Bibles, whatever he could find. Moriarty was the type to leave a breadcrumb trail, like he literally had once. Essentially, that's what Sherlock was looking for.

It was by the prayer candles that he found it. A very clear, cold message.

A black origami lotus flower.

 _Deadman_.

/

Moriarty closed the heavy, metal door behind him as he exited John's cell. He almost tripped on the large, lifeless form of the guard right at his feet.

One bullet hole oozed scarlet slowly from his forehead.

A woman leaned against the wall nearby, a gun with a silencer in her hand. She wore a dazzling black dress that hung onto attractive curves. Sexy midnight stilettos with a touch of red adorned her feet. Dark hair was in a tight French twist, only a single curl framed her face. Her lipstick matched her blood-red fingertips. Blue eyeliner accented mysterious, devious eyes.

"Hello Miss Adler," Moriarty scowled. "Any particular reason you're testing my security today, and not doing what we discussed?"

"I've decided on a different prospect that catches my attention," her voice resembled velvet, but with a mischievous tone.

"It's a good offer. You need the money."

"Money isn't something of my concern. I live my life on deals," Irene smirked.

"This is a deal," Moriarty hissed. He needed Irene Adler's cooperation in order to prick Sherlock in the right way.

A sneering smile. "And this is me not holding up my end. Good day, James."

Click of heels and swaying hips, and she was gone.

/

John was alone. Moriarty had left after his recent threat of burning, leaving John to ponder the meaning. Torture, most likely. He had never been tortured, and wasn't looking forward to the prospect of it. He had scars from Afghanistan that he wasn't excited to add to.

But if it meant keeping Sheryl, Mary, and Sherlock safe, he would do it.

It was times like these that he almost regretted meeting Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had impacted his life in such a drastic manner, he would be in a much different place without him. He would of never have gotten over his psychosomatic limp and never really found joy again. Would have continued his practice as a doctor, in some small, sad clinic on the outskirts of London. His flatmate would have been boring, probably some teacher. Never would've been forced to deal with Mycroft and never of made friends with the detective inspector of Scotland Yard, Lestrade. He would have never met Mary, never imagined Sheryl. And he most definitely wouldn't be handcuffed to a chair, in the hands of one of the most sadistic, harmful criminal masterminds of the age.

Yes, if he hadn't met Sherlock Holmes, his life would be much duller. Much safer.

Yet he would've died a lonely, depressed doctor.

He needed the thrill of the chase to keeping him going; that was one way Sherlock and him were alike. Why they made such a great pair. And Sherlock provided the thrill. Sometimes John just ran alongside, absolutely clueless in the face of mystery. But it was worth it. No matter how many times Sherlock drove him to insanity, or made fun of his blogs, or him, he needed Sherlock.

When Sherlock "died", he tried to replace him with Mary. It wasn't the same, but he loved her. There were different kinds of love.

Including the devoting love, where you were zip-tied to a chair and tortured and were okay with it, because it was worth it to keep those you love safe.

A sharp pang in his shoulder snapped him out of his philosophical haze. He still didn't know what happened to his shoulder. It wasn't a bullet wound, Lord knows he knew what that felt like. Overall, his body ached so it was hard to tell if it was a fracture of some kind. For the past hour or so, the pain subsided to a throb, but something agitated it. John shifted again. The zip-ties brought no relief to his cramped limbs.

The pain in his head was manageable now too. It was probably just a punch, as there was no blood on his face from what he could feel.

No matter how hard he scrunched his eyebrows or scoured his disheveled brain, he couldn't recall what happened to land him in this situation. The last thing he could remember was leaving the bar with Lestrade, saying good night, then trying to hail a cab. Maybe he was drugged. However, he had been at the bar for hours, and the kidnappers would not of been able to know when he was going to walk out and how to plan the poison accordingly.

He knew whatever scenarios he thought of would be useless. Years of working with Sherlock had accustomed him to keeping his ideas to himself.

Besides, this was Jim Moriarty.

He was no match for Moriarty.

/

Sherlock warily climbed the stairs to 221B. The weight of the pink phone and paper flower in his pocket was nothing compared to the decisions he had to make. He didn't know what the next choice should be; how to get closer to finding his best friend. He considered going to the lab to analyze the lotus but decided against it. It wouldn't have dust or fingerprints; instead be frustratingly clean, just like the phone.

The image of John continued to haunt him. Moriarty didn't do the dirty work. If he wanted to torture John, he'd have to hire someone.

Reaching the top stair, he was alarmed to find the door open. It was just a sliver, but he was positive he locked it upon exit. Every cell in his body alert, he pushed the door open with his long, white fingers.

She was there. Beige jacket, heels, slacks.

And a very specific shade of red lipstick.

The Agent.

"Hello. Little early for clients," Sherlock said, crossing the room and sinking into his familiar chair.

"Not a client," the Agent replied, not bothering to hide the alien accent this time.

"A friend?" Sherlock's lip twitched.

"Hardly. You don't have many of those and neither do I. Just because I fixed your collar doesn't mean I qualify," she smiled.

Neither said anything for a few moments. Every now and again, the woman chuckled a little bit as her eyes fluttered over the apartment. Sherlock's fingers rested against each other under his jaw in his thinking position, observing her.

"Tell me what you're here for," Sherlock said slowly.

"You're the smart-ass detective. You tell me," she smiled again. She had full lips and straight teeth, accented nicely by the shade of red. Her eyes were the color of the ocean, though not as bright and brilliant as his own. Although Sherlock couldn't care less, she was attractive by media and normal standards.

"You were hired by Irene Adler," he said, emotionless.

"You are quick," she stood up and began circling the room. "May I ask your path of deduction?"

"I knew from the first second I saw you. The lipstick gave it away."

"Yes. I wanted to be more subtle, but I do as I'm told."

"And you were told to run into me, then come into my apartment and leave a message," Sherlock said quickly. If Irene Adler was nearby, and willing to help him find John... well, he wasn't exactly sure what to make of that.

The agent pulled out an envelope from a pocket within her coat. "It was a pleasure, Mr. Holmes."

She laid it on the table, gave one last chuckle as she looked around the room, then helped herself out the door.

Sherlock picked up the envelope carefully, first feeling it, then smelling it. He recognized the perfume. This was definitely from Adler.

Enclosed was a single sheet of paper.

Written in lovely handwriting with an expensive ballpoint pen, were five words.

 _Dead is the new sexy._

Directly below was a little heart in red. Sherlock froze. One sniff told him all he needed to know.

The heart was drawn with blood.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** I was looking online for Sherlock's coat because I wanted one and I found the actual thing on Belstaff and _it's over 2,0000 dollars_. This is why Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a car. And why I'll never have a Sherlock coat :(

Also sorry this update is a little shorter than normal, I wanted to get something up.

 **Dead Is the New Sexy**

 **CHAPTER 4**

The sharp shrilling sound of Lestrade's mobile filled his pitch black bedroom. It cut into his peaceful, sleeping brain like a bolt of lightning. He groaned, which intensified when his wife hit his arm.

"Greg, wake up," she commanded groggily.

"I am, I am," he grumbled, reaching for the loud device on the bedside table.

 _Incoming call from SHERLOCK HOLMES._

Shit.

Rising out of bed and leaving his disgruntled wife in the room behind him, he answered.

"Greg Lestrade."

" _I'm heading to Scotland Yard right now, and to avoid your forensics team being idiotic twits, I need you to accompany me,"_ Sherlock's voice was dead serious, maybe even stern.

"Is this about John?" Greg fumbled around for a pair of trousers and a decent shirt.

A slight hesitation, " _Yes, I think so."_

"You _think?"_ Greg said, surprised. "Don't you _know?"_

" _Not exactly. These are dangerous waters. And I don't have time to deal with your morons of a police station. Are you in your car yet?"_

"Getting there. Look, Sherlock, this isn't a case yet. I can't guarantee-"

" _You're concerned your chief won't let you help me. I know. But for just this once, I_ need _this."_

Was Sherlock begging?

"I'll be there. I'll try to get a case for John open today. I can't guarantee politeness from my officers, however," Greg stepped into his car and slammed the door.

" _If they're polite, I would doubt they were your officers, Gerry,"_ Sherlock hung up the phone.

It was then that Lestrade noticed the time. It was bordering on 3 in the morning. Sherlock had never cared or respected the time of day. This wasn't the first time a text or call from Sherlock had woken Lestrade up during the middle of the night. But for some reason, this one was different. What Lestrade couldn't identify in Sherlock's voice earlier was desperation.

The detective inspector spent the rest of the ride to SY pondering why Sherlock Holmes might require a forensics team at this hour.

/

The cabbie pulled up at the entrance of Scotland Yard. An officer greeted Sherlock as he headed towards the door.

"Is there a problem, sir?"

"Has detective inspector Lestrade arrived yet?"

"No...uh, I haven't seen him come in."

"Then yes."

"What?"

"Yes, there is a problem."

"Wait, aren't you Sherlock Holmes? Don't you wear a hat?"

"Oh for Christ's sake."

The sound of an approaching vehicle caused Sherlock to turn around and watch Lestrade pull into his designated parking space. It seemed the engine barely had time to die before Lestrade was jogging up beside him.

Sherlock and Lestrade entered the station without a word, ignoring the guard who was asking for ID.

"Show me," Lestrade commanded as they headed towards the elevator and the forensics lab.

"Elevator," Sherlock said quietly, and in one word explained that whatever he had was too private for the hallways of New Scotland Yard.

Once inside the elevator, he pulled an envelope from his breast pocket of the Belstaff and handed it to Lestrade.

Lestrade observed it, but only saw "Sherlock Holmes" in feminine manuscript on the front. Pulling out the contents, he looked at Sherlock for answers. The blood heart was enough to raise questions, let alone the words, "Dead is the new sexy."

"Am I supposed to know what this means?" Lestrade asked, sniffing the blood, just as Sherlock did.

"No, it's a specific message for me."

"Is this…" Lestrade hesitated, "...Jesus Sherlock, is this John's blood?"

Greg noticed Sherlock's jaw tighten. "I don't know. That's why I require the services of Scotland Yard. I could analyze the blood myself, but I don't have a DNA database to compare it to."

"I promise I'll try to get a missing person case open for John tomorrow, er, today," Lestrade said.

Sherlock didn't respond, and the elevator dinged.

/

Oxygen, please.

His lungs were screaming.

Little dots danced on the corners of his vision.

For the love of God, pass out.

John Watson's head was mercilessly dunked continually in the ice cold bucket of water. A burning sensation built in his chest; panic was rising. He knew Moriarty wouldn't kill him, he needed John as leverage whether he liked it or not.

A man twice the size of John grasped onto his hair, forcing him to obey the force of his movements. John was pushed underwater for about 30 seconds, brought above for 10, then the cycle repeated. This had been going on for maybe fifteen minutes, and John could feel his body fighting for consciousness and air. Water was already in his lungs.

He wanted to pass out.

He wanted to give up.

An image of Sheryl passed his mind and his soul lifted for a second. Moriarty was a sick, twisted SOB who was putting John through hell to get to Sherlock.

Speaking of Sherlock, he sure wished the detective would hurry the bloody hell up.

His senses blurred as he entered the water once more.

30… 29… 28… 27…

John almost screamed in surprise as he was pulled up early. To his dismay, the reason seemed to be that Moriarty returned.

"Miss me, Johnny-boy?"

John figured his best course of action was to keep his mouth shut.

"Someone else," he motioned to the bloke who tortured John, "someone more elegant, was supposed to do this. They backed out of my deal. In fact, Irene Adler sends her love."

 _How sweet,_ he mentally rolled his eyes.

"Which changes things," Moriarty said, invading John's personal space. A single finger stroked John's jawline. He didn't react. He didn't even blink. "I like people to do what I plan them to. Disobeying me does make it interesting for a little bit, then it just becomes annoying. Irene Adler has become annoying. My original plan was to break Sherlock. And that will happen, in time. But first, Adler will obey me. It seems your beloved detective will be arriving to the party sooner."

 _Don't react. Don't react. He wants a show._ John remained stoic, keeping the fear locked inside.

"Hmm," Moriarty frowned. "No 'Oh no not Sherlock!' No begging? Well that won't do." Moriarty backhanded John across the face. It was harder than anything he expected from the consulting criminal. A sharp crack sounded as knuckles connected with cheekbones.

John spit, and met Moriarty's gaze with a fiery stare. "I was a soldier. That wasn't even a punch. You might want to try a little harder than that."

"Okay," Moriarty shrugged, then whistled. Two husky goons walked through the door.

This time John actually rolled his eyes. If Sherlock was a Drama Queen, his adversary was the Drama King.

"Let's see if we can get a scream out of you, _soldier_ ," Moriarty spat.

One of the men, Idiot A, picked up a heavy duty metal pipe from beside the door. He smacked it in his other hand, trying to look intimidating.

Moriarty backed away, leaving room for Idiot A to work his magic. The thick hands that had forced him into the water continued to hold him, clasping onto his biceps and forcing him to stay still. He thought about squirming but knew it was useless. The best defense he could act on right now would be a sickening kick to Idiot C's shins. Considering his situation: outnumbered, weakened, incapacitated, he knew a fight right now would be stupid. John may not have the same observational skills as Sherlock, but when it came to military strategies, he believed he had the upper-hand. Though he never experienced a hostage situation like this before, he knew when the odds were against him. A fight right now would waste energy and strength. Which he would need, judging by the threat Idiot A continued to impose.

Idiot A raises the pipe over his shoulder, and John braced himself for the blow. Nothing, not military training, not being shot, _nothing_ could've prepared him for the white hot pain of his ribs shattering. He gasped, trying to regain some ounce of sanity. He didn't scream. Moriarty looked disappointed.

The pipe had collided with his left side. He knew ribs were broken. There wasn't a doubt in his mind.

Idiot A paused, scrutinizing him and looking for another angle.

Moriarty spoke up, "If he doesn't scream next time, you're fired."

John guessed that "fired" in Moriarty's network translated to "killed." Idiot A focused on John, a malicious smile on his face.

He nodded to Idiot C, whose grip tightened on John although John didn't think that was possible.

Idiot A brought the pipe down hard, right into John's right knee.

John screamed.

Moriarty smiled.

/

"We've got the DNA results," Lestrade walked back into his office where Sherlock sat waiting, typing into his iPhone.

"And?" Sherlock jumped up.

"I can barely believe it, Sherlock. It's um, its," Lestrade stuttered.

Ignoring him, Sherlock snatched the papers from Lestrade's hand.

Moriarty.

It's James Moriarty's blood.

He gently placed the file down, and placed his hands together in his default thinking position.

Lestrade watched him. This was way out of Scotland Yards league; he wasn't blind, even if Sherlock sometimes thought so. The last battle with Moriarty led to Sherlock Holmes' downfall and suicide. Of course, he wished to assist in finding John. Yet how much could he really accomplish?

A phone rang. At first, Lestrade checked his own pockets, thinking it was his. Realizing the noise came from one of the pockets of Sherlock's great, iconic coat he attempted to pull the detective out of his mind stupor.

"Sherlock.

"Sherlock.

"Sherlock!"

"What?" he hissed.

"Phone," Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

Annoyed, Sherlock pulled the Apple product from his pocket.

The caller ID read _Irene Adler._

"The game, Detective Inspector, is on."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** Once again I've been traveling, and therefore didn't have time to work on this. I've been working on a new story too, one about Sherlock and Mycroft having a sister. I don't know when I'll post that one. Anyways, sorry for the late update.

By the way, this fanfic has a trailer on YouTube (paste into url bar and remove spaces):

(youtube) /watch?v=Msim65lmvSA

Yes, I know this is a really short update for me and I apologize, but I felt this part needed to stand alone.

 **Dead Is the New Sexy**

 **CHAPTER 5**

Sherlock answered the call.

" _Let's have dinner."_ Her voice. Her sexy, enticing, velvet voice. The request she'd asked him 54 times.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock's voice rang slow across the room. Lestrade gave him a flabbergasted stare.

" _Fine. Then let's make a deal."_

"I'm listening."

" _Trade yourself for your beloved doctor."_

"Dinner it is then," Sherlock straightened more; Lestrade didn't think that was possible. "Where?"

" _221B Baker Street. Lovely little place. Ever heard of it?"_

A click, and the call disconnected.

"Who the hell was that?" said Lestrade in a concerned tone.

"The Woman," Sherlock responded distantly.

He headed towards the door, but a force yanked him still. Lestrade had his fist around Sherlock's skinny bicep. "Sherlock. We'll find John. I promise."

"Text me if you get a case opened," Sherlock stepped away from the DI's grasp and headed down the stairs.

Back to Baker Street, then.

/

The gun left Irene's temple when Moriarty disconnected the call.

It was very strange. Moriarty in 221B. The setting didn't fit somehow. Because to her, 221B Baker Street was a place of safety. The place where she had run when any other hope and safety ran out. Where she could be protected by Sherlock Holmes.

Irene could smell him. Almost taste him. The apartment reeked of him. Every paper scattered on the floor contained his touch. Every mug touched his lips. His presence was undeniable as she sat in his chair. In the great chair of Sherlock Holmes. Except this time it wasn't in _his_ clothes, her hair wet from his shower, his shampoo, his conditioner. Now a parasite infected the whole place, crawling into every quivering fiber.

James Moriarty lazily picked up an apple from the desk and turned it over in his fingers.

"Not a bad performance," he commented. Something about the apple seemed to amuse him.

"Did you expect any less?" she tucked her legs underneath her, pretending to seem relaxed. Unafraid. Because as much as Moriarty didn't intimidate her, the act of dying terrified her. And Moriarty was just as much as a murderer as any. But dogs could sense fear; it made them more defensive. Moriarty was a tensed mutt, and one little thing that annoyed him would set him off. Set off the gun, really, with a bullet aimed straight for her skull.

There is a type of ceasing in the universe when someone is forced to wait in a tense situation. When every second lengthens into an hour, when no matter how much you scream, wail, and kick, the thing you're waiting for doesn't come fast enough. When every cell in your body is in strict equilibrium, and the weight of time is so heavy you can hardly move. This is how Irene Adler felt, staring at that damn entrance, waiting for the great consulting detective to burst through the door and pull one more trick out of the sleeve of that great Belstaff coat of his.

A door creaked. A man ran up the stairs. And appeared in the doorway, Sherlock Holmes himself.

Now in the apartment were three very different people, who shared the same attributes. The pale skin and dark hair, related their figures. The figurative blood on their hands, the cunning minds, the mutual understanding of importance to one another shared inside. All sociopaths. None were innocent. All had made deals with the devil.

And now, it was time for one more.

The Woman, the Consulting Detective, and the Consulting Criminal.

Which one is the devil, decide for yourself.

"Hello, sexy," the Woman purred.

The Consulting Detective ignored her. For some reason, she expected him to rush to her side, breaking zip-ties from her wrist, and wistfully move the hair from her face. No. His focus was on the Consulting Criminal.

They stared at each other. Mastermind to mastermind. Enemy to enemy.

Skeleton to skeleton.

"You died," Sherlock's baritone had a sharp edge. Like a parent finally run out of patience for the child stealing cookies.

"So did you. Death's boring, isn't it?" Moriarty was still twirling the fruit.

"Death is another world, one adventure that can't be explored until you enter it. I'm surprised you don't feel the same," Sherlock entered in slow steps, reaching the side of John's chair. He didn't sit. It was John's chair. He wasn't allowed to sit in it.

"Look where that _adventure_ led us," Moriarty spat, entering his twisted, sadistic mood. "Back to this. CIRCLES, Sherlock. You and I, going in CIRCLES! Here I am, gun in my hand, threatening to kill someone you call a friend."

"If you're referring to Miss Adler, I wouldn't say friend was the right adjective," his monotone voice and stoic expression displayed no emotion.

"Psh, Adler is bait. You know who I have."

"You wouldn't kill him."

"I killed myself, I killed you, I had a gun trained on him, what makes you think I won't kill your boring doctor friend?"

"You need him for leverage."

"Why would I need leverage?"

"For me. For once, leave the games out of it. The toying, the playing, the twisting of others. This is between you and me. You've always just wanted me. From the day you put your number under that dish."

Moriarty twitched. Sherlock smiled. There were different kinds of smiles. A smile of joy, of sadness, of longing, of laughter, of friendship; just to name a few. This was the smile of a madman.

The smile of a fallen angel.

"I told you to get used to riddles."

"They sicken me."

" _You_ sicken me," Moriarty threw the apple up in the air, and shot up it. The thunder of the gun rang throughout the apartment. Poor Mrs. Hudson. Having to answer to the neighbors.

Neither Sherlock or Irene flinched. A lunatic with a gun in his hand was likely to fire it at some time. It was like putting the steak in front of the dog and expecting him not to wolf it down.

"You, Sherlock, have become so unbearably _predictable_ ," Moriarty sighed. The apple had exploded on impact, staining the walls. "Always have to be the hero, swooping in to save the day. John Watson has tamed you. Turned you into a boring, pathetic lump of emotions. John Watson has given you a HEART!" he screamed the last word. Neighbors be damned.

Sherlock didn't react. Let the moments fade away. Finally, he returned, "Would you like to play a game? Something to catch your interest?"

Moriarty considered him. This was new. This was _exciting._ He was proud of Sherlock. Finally turning the tables.

"Humour me," answered Jim, a sickening smile creeping onto his visage.

"You let John go, in return for me. And you can try to _break_ me."

"You want me to kill you?" Moriarty's eyebrows furrowed.

"There's a difference between a broken man, and a dead one. Surely you know that."

Irene couldn't believe what she was hearing. There wasn't a trick up the ol' sleeve after all. Just a stupid, reckless plan to lead Sherlock into a slow and miserable death, no doubt. Sherlock was engraving his own gravestone.

Moriarty didn't respond, so Sherlock continued his monologue. "These games are what are useless. Us dancing around the point. I want you to let John Watson go, this isn't about him."

"So just yooouuu and me, Sherlock," Moriarty sang. "One on one. You're offering me the chance to burn your heart."

"Most say I don't have one."

"Well, that isn't quite true. But I'll make do. Would you like to tie youself up or shall I?"

Very controlled, Sherlock stripped of his scarf and extravagant coat. He laid them lovingly on John's chair, then held out his hands. "Be my guest."

Moriarty eyed his prize like a breeder would a racehorse. This isn't what he expected, but that meant it wasn't boring. This was _fun._ Proud of Sherlock, indeed.

He pulled two zip ties from his breast pocket, left over from Adler. He stroked Sherlock's cold hands before applying them. A violinist's hands. Delicate hands. Hands that could be snapped.

He paused after securing the zip ties, thumb resting on the pulse. The beating pulse. The proof of a heart.

Leaving the Woman behind, the Consulting Criminal followed the Consulting Detective down the worn steps of 221.

The devil had chains on his fallen angel, and was finally dragging him down to the gates of hell.

/

 **Please review! It motivates an update ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Dead Is the New Sexy**

 **CHAPTER 6**

"Moriarty made a mistake, leaving you with me," Idiot A threatened.

Moriarty was as cold and calculating as Sherlock. "I doubt he makes many mistakes," John completed his thoughts out loud.

"Today he did," Idiot B rounded in John's vision.

John was pretty sick of Idiot A, B, and C, and their stupidness.

Because of Sherlock destroying the majority of Moriarty's web, James was short on skilled hitters. They were effective in hurting John - not even the doctor could deny that with his shattered knee, broken ribs, injured shoulder, and pounding skull. He was thankful in a way for their lack of talent, or else he probably would've screamed more by now. What really got on his nerves was every word that escaped their lips proved a very, very, low IQ.

Idiot B picked up the same pipe from earlier, but Idiot C stopped him and pulled him over for a hushed conversation. When they returned, nothing was in their hands except tension. Rock-like fists swung at their sides, giving the appearance of dull cavemen.

Approaching incapacitated John, Idiot A nodded to Idiot B to untie the army doctor. John suppressed a sigh of relief when tight bonds loosened from his bruised and bleeding wrists, freeing him from the wooden chair. However, after smacking face first on the concrete as a result, the wooden chair didn't seem so bad. The buzzing in his head intensified to the point where everything mushed together into an incoherent jumble of light and sounds. Not capable of supporting his own weight, or even an attempt to raise his head, rough hands rolled him over so his stomach was exposed. Then it began. The beating John had been dreading.

It came softer at first, only one pair of steel-toed boots at a time. Then another pair joined, and the remaining Idiot lowered himself to his knees and punched. For being cheap guns-for-hire, they were educated in pressure points. At first John shouted, then whittled down to gasping, his brain unable to process all the screaming nerves imploding under his skin. Eyes scrunched tight, his consciousness faded.

A startling, icy plunge woke him minutes later. Dripping ice water covered John head to toe, paralyzing any action. His eyes opened to blazing light, cutting a hole through his head like a chainsaw. Concussion, no doubt about it.

It was through this haze John saw a familiar, slender figure in the doorway. Without his Belstaff and scarf, John could barely trust his vision that the person in question was indeed Sherlock Holmes.

At first he expected a squad of heavily armed police officers to file out behind him, red dots dancing on Idiots A, B, and C, ready to blow the world to smithereens. To his dismay, only one person stepped out from behind Sherlock, handgun pressed to the detective's temple.

Moriarty had his prize.

Part of John was overjoyed to see Sherlock, the rescue. Part of him wanted to scream for Sherlock to run, and not do this. Whatever "this" was. Did Sherlock even have a plan? Could Lestrade be tailing them? Of course he had a plan. This was Sherlock, he _had to_ have a plan.

Yet something in those azul eyes told John differently.

"Doctor Watson, it seems our fun has come to a close. WELLLL, almost," Moriarty sang.

Sherlock's gaze went from scrutinizing John to burning fire at James.

"You should've learned the first time we met: I'm _soooooooo_ unpredictable."

"You let John Watson go, that was our deal," Sherlock looked ready to burn the western world into ashes, despite the gun to his temple and handcuffs on his wrists.

"Deal, schmeal."

"You let John Watson go, you get to _break me,_ " Sherlock's voice had a dangerous tone, more dangerous than any John every heard.

"Ah, but ain't that the catch, love," Moriarty dismissed the Idiots with the wave of his hand. They scuttled from the room. "To break you, I first need to break John Watson. Here, have a seat."

He forcefully shoved Sherlock into a metal chair hidden in the shadows, then pushed him into the light. John was beside himself. The Idiots were gone. Sherlock wasn't outnumbered. He was twice as tall as Jim it seemed; _so why wasn't he fighting?_

Then John realized. You can't outrun a bullet. Moriarty still possessed the gun. And it was fixed on his skull. Sherlock wouldn't try anything reckless if it put John in more danger. At this point, John reasoned, a bullet wouldn't be too much more damage.

For a second his eyes matched Sherlock. Sherlock was unreadable. He mouthed, "Run."

Sherlock focused his gaze back on Moriarty. Moriarty, whom was giving the psychopath speech. Neither of them were listening.

"... I won't kill you. No. There's a difference between a broken man and a dead one, after all," Moriarty smiled at Sherlock.

"Let John go," Sherlock commanded.

"OH SHUT UP!"

Moriarty fired the gun. At Sherlock.

The bullet passed through and through Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock gasped, staring down at the wound in shock, before bound hands clasped down on to it to add pressure. John wished nothing more to contain the energy to climb over there and help.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Things are really getting out of hand." Moriarty seemed shocked as well.

Sherlock watched the blood ooze down his leg, then glared up at Jim defiantly.

"Let. John. _Go."_

"New game. Every time you request that, I shoot you. For example," Moriarty's hazel eyes gleamed with madness as he pulled the trigger, aiming for Sherlock's shoulder.

The little scarlet hole contrasted deeply against the starch white shirt of Sherlock. With the handcuffs, he couldn't apply pressure to this one.

John was in horrid shock. Never would he of dreamed Moriarty would shoot Sherlock. Twice, at that.

Sherlock appeared stoic as always, except for the occasional twitch of pain betrayed in facial features.

"I-I," John coughed, raspy voice returning, "thought you didn't," a breath, "want to kill him."

"I don't," Moriarty stared at John as if the doctor was the crazy one.

"What he's implying is that I'll bleed out," Sherlock's baritone hid the pain. John was impressed, but he knew it was a faҫade.

"Oops. Can't have that," he shook his head. "JOHNSON!" Moriarty shouted into the hallway.

Idiot A appeared almost immediately. "Sir?"

"Go get some First Aid supplies. And we'll have Dr. Watson here treat his patient."

Idiot A nodded and returned to the hallway.

John gave an apologetic glance towards Sherlock. This wasn't going to end well.

/

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THEY'RE _BOTH_ GONE?" Lestrade exploded at Dollivan delivering the news of Mrs. Hudson's call of gunshots and missing Sherlock.

"She said, she woke up to a gunshot and shouting and when she went up to check no one was there," Dollivan repeated.

"Has anyone tried calling Sherlock?" Lestrade pulled out his mobile and dialed the number by heart.

/

The mobile phone in the Belstaff buzzed and rang to no one in the apartment. Except for Irene Adler, who stayed in 221. It was technically vacant, after all.

She pulled out the phone to see _Lestrade_ on the screen. Not familiar with the name, she answered the call.

"Hello?"  
" _Who's this? Where's Sherlock?"_

"Sorry dear, he's not here. Can I take a message?"

" _Where is he?"_ the voice of Lestrade commanded gruffly.

"Out on business, I presume."

" _This is a detective from Scotland Yard. I demand you tell me who you are and where you last saw Sherlock Holmes."_

"Oh, the detective with the funny hat? Last time I saw him was in the papers. When he died. I guess that'll be the next time you'll see him too."

She disconnected. Playing with the police always entertained her. However, they were probably headed to 221B soon, no doubt.

Time to get dressed, then.

 **Reviews = updates! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes:** Since the last couple chapters were pretty short, here's a long treat for ya'll. The longest chapter yet, in fact. Thanks for all the love! Also, to the Guest regarding the injuries comment: I'm trying to keep track best I can. If I miss anything please let me know.

 **Dead Is the New Sexy**

 **CHAPTER 7**

Greg Lestrade stared at the practically naked woman in Sherlock's chair, arms through the sleeves of the Belstaff, front completely open. Irene Adler stared back at Greg Lestrade.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. Where's Sherlock?" he commanded, lowering his gun.

Dollivan and the rest of them waited downstairs, Lestrade going up first to face whatever 221B contained. This fair woman with dark hair and dazzling makeup was nothing close to what he expected. Nor was the exploded apple on the wall or more bullet holes from last night or Sherlock's boredom. Also, the paper tornado that seemed to have whipped through the apartment. 221B was a disaster, in short.

"Yes, I know, we talked on the phone. How should I know?" Irene answered, picking up a mirror from the table and applying more scarlett lipstick.

"On the presumption you were here last night, you know who took Sherlock," he strapped his gun back into its holster. He didn't see this woman as a threat.

"Yes, Detective Inspector, I was here," she smiled. "Don't you have friends waiting downstairs?"

"They can wait," Lestrade responded cautiously.

Irene Adler stood up, exposing more of her round breasts and front-side. "Pity. I usually like an audience." Pulling out a phone from Sherlock's coat pocket, she began typing as if Lestrade wasn't even in the room.

"They can come up, if you want," his eyebrows furrowed. _This chick is a piece of work._ "May I ask your name?"

"You can call me Dominatrix."

 _Dear God, what kind of people is Sherlock getting into?_ Something sick in his mind click. _She's naked. Wearing Sherlock's coat._ _Oh Jesus…_ "Are you and Sherlock involved romantically?"

She glanced up from her typing and scoffed, then returned to her task.

"I can either question you here, or drag you to Scotland Yard. Are you and Sherlock involved romantically?"

"Technically, I have Right to Counsel and Right to Silence, officer," she paused, giving Lestrade a 'look.' However, she continued, "I ask him out to dinner. He turns me down. Except for last night. But that was a meeting with the Consulting Criminal, special occasion I guess."

"Consulting criminal?" Lestrade repeated in question. Of all his years of being a detective, this was one of the most outlandish encounters he'd ever experienced.

"You've met. In a way."

"You're not going to tell me his name, are you?"

"Of course I'll give you the bastard's name. On one condition. Scotland Yard provides me with protection from said person."

Lestrade sighed. He barely managed to get a case open for John, and now Sherlock's missing. He was understaffed as it was. Now he'd have to sacrifice officers to this "Dominatrix." What a morning.

However, this _was_ his only lead for Sherlock and John.

"Deal," Lestrade nodded.

"Excellent, shall we head down to Scotland Yard?" she began buttoning the grand coat.

"Tell me a name first."

"Oh of course," she lit a cigarette from a box on the desk. "James Moriarty."

Greg contained himself from pounding his head on the wall and instead let out a provocative string of curses. _Bastard, indeed._

/

Eyebrows furrowed, eyes desperately blinking, he struggled to focus on realty. John's vision danced with stars, and his body was screaming for rest. But he knew he had to fix this. _Fix Sherlock. Pull yourself together, dammit Watson._ Through the blur, he focused on the meager supplies given to him. Antiseptic, gauze, a needle and thread. Afghanistan all over again. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Somehow managing to drag his reluctant body over to the detective, his hands opened and closed in fists, as he desperately tried to free his shaking fingers of quivers.

"John. How hurt are you?" Sherlock asked in a hushed whisper, one of the rare occasions genuine care laced his baritone voice.

John stared at those brilliant blue eyes, looking for answers. Sherlock always had an escape plan. But now, they were going to rot here. In the hands of James Moriarty. In the concrete room of hell.

Speak of the devil, Moriarty left for some phone calls, leaving John and Sherlock under the supervision of 'Johnson.'

"I'm not gonna lie Sherlock," John gasped, trembling hands opening the bottle of antiseptic. "This is gonna hurt."

Pouring the liquid over Sherlock's thigh bullet hole, John ignored Sherlock hissing through a clenched jaw. "At least he's letting you treat it," Sherlock coughed, trying to regain control of the pain.

"I don't know what I can do. Look at me Sherlock. How much help do you think I am?" John clenched his eyes shut for a second, warding away unconsciousness.

Sherlock looked at John, truly observed. Cut from a knife, it would seem, covered in dried blood on his shoulder. Bump on his forehead indicating concussion. Sensitive ribs, so probably cracked or broken or both. Knee swelled up to the size of a baseball. John's skin littered in an array of different bruise colors. The doctor needed a doctor. But underneath the dirt, grime, injuries, Sherlock still saw the army doctor and soldier he trusted with his bloody life.

He bit his lip. "John, I-" Should he say he had a plan? Lie that Lestrade and the entire badass force of Scotland Yard were coming? No, John would see his bullshit. He always could. "I-I trust you, Doctor. C'mon. Give me that antiseptic, I'll work on your shoulder."

With a glance at the local Idiots, John handed over the antiseptic to Sherlock's tied hands. Despite the zip-ties, Sherlock had better control of his hands than John. Violinist's hands. They were still and calm as he held the bottle. "Sorry," he muttered, when the sizzling medicine hit John's shoulder and Sherlock watched him grimace.

The Idiots seemed unconcerned with Sherlock treating John's wounds, so he continued.

While inspecting John's head through matted blonde hair, the doctor questioned, "Is a bullet still in your shoulder?"

Sherlock must've been in some sort of shock, because he couldn't remember the shot for a second. Then the feeling of thunder and lighting tearing through his skin returned to mind. Mycroft's voice filled his head, from the time Mary shot him. " _What's behind you?"_

" _The metal chair,"_ he answered his Mind Palace.

" _If the bullet passed through, what would you of heard?"_

" _A loud noise from the bullet reverberating from the chair."_

" _But you didn't, so what does that mean, you stupid, stupid-"_

"Yes. Yes, it's still inside," Sherlock said aloud, cutting off Mind Palace Mycroft.

"I-I can't," John said softly.

"What?" Sherlock stopped feeling his head for a second to meet his eyes.

"I can't get it out," he admitted, showing his trembling hands.

Sherlock swallowed. "Don't worry, I'm fine. You, on the other hand."

"Sherlock, just tell me - is Sheryl okay? Moriarty threatened her."

Sherlock felt a wave of guilt flood over him. _Mary._ He'd never called her. " _Stupid, stupid,_ selfish _little boy,"_ Mind Palace Mycroft criticized.

"They're safe," Sherlock nodded. _Why didn't I call Lestrade? Tell Scotland Yard to protect her? Fuck._

"What if I die? What if fucking Moriarty kills me?" John asked, a conviction in his voice Sherlock was unfamiliar with. "What if I never raise my child?"

Sherlock froze. His human emotions weren't developed. He didn't know too much about family or fatherly affection. Not until this very second. Not until this very moment, when realization burned his heart. This was what burned him, watching John in pain like this. Not the physical kind, the emotional kind. The kind Sherlock couldn't comprehend. Moriarty finally found the secret to burning Sherlock Holmes's heart. John Watson. It always had been. Now, it hit him like a train. I _made a vow._ He knew he'd never let Moriarty touch precious Sheryl. But by being careless, now he couldn't guarantee Sheryl or Mary's safety. John didn't need to know that.

"John, I made a vow at your wedding. And I will keep it. Do you really think I'll let Moriarty touch your family?"

A faint smile glimmered on John's face, as he concentrated on wrapping Sherlock's gunshot wounds with gauze. "Then what's the plan, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Getting you out of here."

Moriarty ended his call right then, re-entering the room, observing his prisoners. "Not bad, Dr. Watson."

"Burn me," Sherlock rose himself to full height, putting his weight on his left leg.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "To burn you, Sherlock Holmes, I have to burn the person who gave you a heart," he whistled and pointed to John.

"No you don't," Sherlock answered. "To burn someone, you only need the person in question. Which in this case, is me, hello. You let John go to the police, and I cooperate with anything you want."

"Anything?" Moriarty laughed. "You're begging."

"I'm making a simple deal."

"I thought you realized I don't stick to deals."

Sherlock approached Moriarty's personal space, and grabbed a box of cigarettes from James's coat pocket. Pulling one out, he asked, "Do you have a lighter?"

With a twisted smile, Moriarty lit Sherlock's cigarette. "Those will kill you, you know."

"They haven't yet. The past has proven I'm rather indestructible," he let a puff of smoke billow into his enemy's face. "This is your one chance, my one offer, for you to test that theory. Refuse, and I break out of here, bringing you down with me."

"I made you commit suicide, and you still test my patience."

"And your theory of a permanent destination _failed_ ," Sherlock hissed.

Moriarty twitched.

"So, new hypothesis. If you can't kill me, how are you going to break me?" Sherlock's voice had no emotion. This was his one shot to save John. If Moriarty refused, he would escape, even if it would be messy and bloody.

With pursed lips, Moriarty's gaze switched from John then back to Sherlock. "I hope you know Greg Lestrade's number by heart."

"Naturally," Sherlock strode back towards the center of the room. Moriarty pulled out his mobile, and Sherlock ranted off the number.

The phone only rang once before the inspector answered, "Lestrade."

"Hello Detective Inspector," Moriarty's accented voice sounded crafty. "I have a gift for you. London Eye. One hour." He ended the call. "Come along Dr. Watson. We have an appointment. You," he pointed to Idiot B, "duct tape Mr. Holmes here to his chair. The rest of you get Watson into the car."

Sherlock didn't even struggle as he stepped on his cigarette then lowered himself into the metal chair. Idiots A and C came over, one starting on thoroughly duct-taping his legs to the chair. Idiot A clipped the zip-ties, pulling his arms through the slats on the chair. He suppressed a groan of pain as the position yanked on his bullet hole in his shoulder. He recognized the feel of cool metal as handcuffs were attached. Idiot C started applying duct tape to his torso. Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes. "That's a little much, don't you think?" Sherlock scoffed. So these were some of Moriarty's pawns, in this twisted game of chess.

Idiot B was struggling to keep John on his feet. Sherlock's attention was drawn to this situation, as a limp John was dragged out the door and out of sight. He'd finally lost consciousness. For the best, probably. Sherlock's jaw tightened. Lestrade better take damn good care of him.

John was gone. Sherlock was alone. A twinge of fear pecked at his mind. _This is for the best,_ he reminded himself. John needed medical assistance, much more than anything Sherlock could provide in this hellhole. But somehow he always felt braver, with the doctor by his side. The doctor who called the police before they did something too stupid, and carried a gun, or occasionally a tire lever.

Now Sherlock was on his own.

Idiot A finished his job with a piece of duct tape over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock literally rolled his eyes at this. With an approving nod from Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal left the room. Sherlock knew Moriarty wouldn't go to London Eye himself, instead observe the drop-off from black and white, grainy footage from hacked security cameras.

With his mouth muted, Sherlock traveled to his Mind Palace, attempting to escape the white hot pain of holes in his flesh. The Mind Palace could comfort him at times, like when he was shot before, and petted Redbeard. How he wished he could go to Redbeard right now and lock the door behind him, keeping his life problems from following him. But no; right now, he needed to _think_.

In his mind, every detail of the London Eye rolled out in his Palace to form the drop-off scenario. He stood on the outskirts in the shadows, familiar Belstaff saving him from the brisk London air. Everything played out in his mind like he was watching a stupid cop show on telly. Wearing a bulletproof vest, Lestrade paced back and forth in front of his dark silver police car - Dollivan, backup, and paramedics in the alley nearby. A black Mercedes approached, headlights off. The crowded tourist spot was filled with the oblivious public, not giving the scene a second glance. Lestrade stiffened when the car stopped, fingers twitching near his firearm. Idiot B stepped out of the vehicle, now dressed in a suit worth more than his scum life. Moriarty liked his representatives well-dressed. They nodded at each other, then Idiot B opened the backseat and gruffly pulled out battered, unconscious John. Lestrade rushed forward grabbing John from Idiot B's rough hands, as he "radio-in"ed for medical assistance. Idiot B would return to his dark vehicle and drive away. John would be rushed to the hospital, sirens screaming. As long as Moriarty kept his word.

"Hey! HEY!" Someone was shouting nearby.

The sharp pang of unknown fingers ripping the duct tape from his mouth snapped Sherlock back to realty; back to a rusty concrete room; back to hell. And his eyes met with the Devil's face.

"That was fast. No traffic?" Sherlock commented.

Moriarty smirked. "No traffic. John is in the hands of the daft police."

"Excellent. Shall we get started then?"

Moriarty shrugged. "I suppose. Smith, Thompsan, get creative," he waved his hand.

Idiots A and C, Thompsan and Smith respectively, approached Sherlock with sadistic smiles.

/

Mary held Sheryl in her arms, biting her lip and fighting tears. She wasn't one to cry. She wasn't one to get scared.

The person she cared about most in the world was missing. Sherlock hadn't answered her calls either. She'd considered stomping up the stairs of his apartment and giving the detective a piece of her mind, but with no idea what was going on she was aware 221B might be compromised. Usually Mary would be eager to throw herself into a dangerous case, teaming up with Sherlock to find her beloved John. But now she had Sheryl. And if something happened to her, who would Sheryl have? Therefore she lengthened her patience and prayed some half-hearted prayers; took it day by day, living the actions of a housewife. She busied herself with menial tasks of repeatedly dusting the house and caring for the baby. To be honest, Mary drove herself up the walls.

Lestrade answered her calls. The only one that picked up his phone in the last 24 hours, yet he never had news. Nevertheless, he'd speak his "We've got it under control" police BS, and she thanked him for the lies. But if this was Moriarty, Scotland Yard didn't stand a chance.

"Daddy will be home soon," she promised, cooing her daughter. It was the same thing she said almost every hour to the baby since John's disappearance. A comforting lie, like when people said "I'm sorry" for something they didn't do, or "It'll be okay." It never turned out okay.

Her phone rang in the distance, echoing in the living room. Giving Sheryl's sweet face a brief kiss, and heart jumping at her child's innocent smile, she placed her back in the crib.

Rushing to the living room, her heart sank when she saw DI Lestrade on the Caller ID. Taking a deep breath, she answered the phone, staring blindly out the window at the bleak London afternoon. "Hello?"

" _We found him, Mary. How fast can you get to St. Barts?"_

"Oh my God," her hand shot up to cover her mouth. "How is he?"

Lestrade hesitated, tiredness obvious in his usually comforting voice. " _How fast can you get to St. Barts?"_

"I-I um, the baby," she grabbed the keys to her car but froze. She didn't want to bring Sheryl to a giant building full of sickness.

" _Shit. Uh, Dollivan! Go over to the Watsons so Mary can come here."_ A hushed conversation as Lestrade put his hand over the mouthpiece. " _She's on her way. Do you trust her?"_

"Yeah yeah of course," she said frazzled. "There's a key under the flower pot on the porch. I'll be right there."

She hated separating from Sheryl in dangerous times like these, but desperate time called for desperate measures. Plus she trusted Dollivan, and she needed _John._

Speeding the whole way there, Mary drove in autopilot mode, mind racing about thoughts concerning the well-being of her husband. Lestrade sounded grave. This wasn't grumpy John with a few cuts and bruises. This was serious. ICU? Maybe. God, she was going to kill whoever got their hands on John.

She parked haphazardly near the hospital entrance and hopped out of the car, rushing through the double doors. The familiar scenery of a hospital greeted her, along with Greg Lestrade in the waiting room.

"Where is he?" she commanded.

Lines of stress and tiredness etched the detective inspector's face. "We attained him about three hours ago." Mary's mouth opened but Lestrade's hand cut her off. "I didn't call you earlier because he's been in surgery this whole time and I wanted you to be able to visit him as soon as we contacted you."

As much as she wished she'd been told a a soon as they located him, she was grateful for Lestrade waiting. "Which room?"

"Three-oh-seven. To the right," she jogged down the hall.

A brunette, round-faced nurse was exiting the room as she approached. "Are you family?" she asked.

"I'm his wife, along with being a certified nurse."

"Of course," she nodded, holding the door open for Mary.

Bracing herself, she stepped into the room. But nothing, _nothing_ could've prepared her for this.

Paler than the over-washed hospital sheets, John lay more still than she believed possible. A bandage adorned his forehead, and his shoulder was wrapped with gauze, which continued down his ribcage and out of view. Underneath the sheets, it was obvious some full-leg, bulky, metal brace covered his right leg. Not only that, but bruises covered most of his arms. An IV and various other tubes were attached to him; machines beeped, reminding Mary that yes, John was alive, even if he didn't appear so. Her strong, chivalrous, daring, handsome, military man crumbled into _this_. It wasn't fair. _It wasn't bloody fair._ Tears dropped onto her blue blouse, and she couldn't stop them.

Mary didn't need medical training to know John was going to need _serious_ recovery time.

It seemed like another world, this mess the newlyweds were caught in. Some continuous, inescapable nightmare. There was nothing Mary could do to help, except offer her heart and soul in support of John. She lowered herself into the chair by his bedside, unable to comprehend the state of the man she loved. Not allowing herself to believe it. _Oh Jesus Christ, what did we do to deserve this?_

Mary grasped John's cold hand, feeling for a pulse. The last thing she had to believe in. _He's going to be okay._

The tears fell harder than the London rain on the window.

"I love you, John Watson."

/

 **More Notes:** As always, reviews = updates! And they make me happy. (: Also, if you're enjoying this, please go check out my other fanfic, _Miss Holmes_ , about Sherlock's badass sister. Available on my profile.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes:** Thanks for the reviews though! They mean a lot… including faster updates. :) (Although this one was late, I'm sorry.) Adding a very pissed off Mycroft Holmes to the fray this chapter, won't that be fun.

 **Dead Is the New Sexy**

 **CHAPTER 8**

Roadblocks were set up, search warrants in place, high-office officials informed, MI6 searching security cameras, and it all seemed in vain. No trace of the international criminal James Moriarty surfaced. Lestrade was on his last nerve. Without John being coherent, he couldn't ask questions. And without being able to ask questions, he couldn't get answers. And he _needed_ those answers. Such as where in the fucking hell was James Moriarty?

"What do you suppose we do, until John wakes up? Huh? Sherlock's God-knows-where and Moriarty is doing God-knows-what to him, and I can't just sit here!" Lestrade pounded his fist on his desk.

Dollivan sighed, resisting the urge to pull out her curls. Lestrade was desperate to find the detective, but what could they really do with no information? She repeated herself, not knowing any other way to persuade the Detective Inspector to have a little patience. "I don't know. The hospital will call when Watson wakes up."

Even the clicking of "Dominatrix's" phone was putting Greg on edge. Why she'd chosen his office to spend her time was beyond him. After resisting the idea of banging his head against the desk, he heard a civilized knock on the door. Looking up, he met the gaze of Mycroft Holmes himself.

Umbrella by his side, slick suit, and perfectly combed hair, the aura of a professional, important individual filled the room. A very grave, almost stern visage showed no room for jokes or light chatter. Dollivan stepped back, silently telling Lestrade he was facing the Holmes brother on his own.

Mycroft entered the opened door, but stopped suddenly when his blue eyes landed on Adler. "You!" he said with such rage Lestrade wasn't sure it was from the same man.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" Irene answered calmly, rising to meet Mycroft's stare. She was still naked besides Sherlock's coat, but Mycroft didn't know.

"Why are you-"

"Here?" she finished his question for him. "Same reason you are. Sherlock Holmes. Isn't that why we always meet?"

"Why is she here?" Mycroft turned to Lestrade, nose up.

"I'm givin' her protection," Lestrade explained, running a hand over his forehead. "From Moriarty."

Mycroft turned back towards Irene. "He threatened you?"

"We have our differences," she informed. "And I backed out of a deal. One I'm sure he's not entirely happy with."

"What _deal_?" Myrcoft's voice burned with the power of a thousand suns.

"The deal in which I kill your brother."

"Kill him? What? Why?" Lestrade commanded.

"He has a plan, the Consulting Criminal. Bring havoc to wherever he can," Irene informed.

"Define havoc," Mycroft said.

"Boom," she pressed her scarlet lips together.

"He's gonna blow stuff up? What? Where?" Lestrade didn't want to believe what he was hearing.

"That's the thing, Detective Inspector. _Everywhere."_

"That's not possible. ...Is it?" Dollivan asked in disbelief.

"I hope not," Mycroft hissed. "Sherlock dealt with a bomb threat when he first returned. An underground terrorist cell… Oh, dear."

"Oh dear what?" said Lestrade.

"That couldn't of been…"

"What?!"

"We need to find Sherlock," Mycroft commanded.

"What do you think I'm trying to do?" Lestrade was a centimeter away from shouting.

"Whatever it is, you're doing a rubbish job," said Irene.

"Nobody asked for your opinion," Dollivan replied, annoyed.

The Dominatrix gave her an up-down, and a little scoff.

"You know where he is," Mycroft stared at Adler. It wasn't a question.

"I did. I'm sure Jim has moved him."

"YOU KNOW?! YOU KNOW WHERE HE IS AND YOU DIDN'T TELL US?!" Lestrade lost it. Dear Lord. If I only strangling someone was legal.

"You didn't ask," Irene shrugged, again typing on her mobile.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Lestrade cussed. "Dollivan ask for some back up. Let's go get this son of a bitch."

"Oh dear," said Mycroft under his breath.

/

Sometimes, shows, movies and books gave the impression that gunshot wounds didn't hurt because of the shock. Sherlock disagreed. _Definitely_ disagreed.

With no morphine or hope of it, he grit his teeth and suffered through the scorching pain of unattended holes in his body. The bandages John applied were already soaked through with blood. He didn't know how much he'd lost, but if the dizziness was any indication, it was quite a bit. Not only that, but that beating from last night didn't help much. They'd kept him in the chair, getting a punch wherever the Idiots thought it'd hurt most. Overall soreness covered Sherlock, but they didn't do much damage asides aggravating the shots more. A headache was developing too, but maybe that was just because of Moriarty's droning voice. All of last night offered no sleep, one of the Idiots waking him up in crude manner should he begin to nod off. At one point, Moriarty returned, yapping. He might be bringing up valid points; Sherlock wasn't sure. He filtered hours ago.

One question snapped him from the Palace, which was working through the problem of escaping.

"Did you ever figure it out, Sherlock?" Moriarty sang in question. He was sitting nearby in his gentlemen's suit, twirling a half-crown in his fingers.

At first, Sherlock figured Moriarty referred to the suicide. "A small, harmless, wireless detonator attached to your head along with a small package of blood, both covered by your hair. The trigger of the gun acted as the button."

"Not _that._ That's insignificant. No, Sherlock. What connects _aaaallllll_ those silly cases you and John scurried around to solve? Huh, _deadman_?"

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed, brain too muddled to produce a witty comeback.

"No answer? Oh, Sherlock I'm even more disappointed in you. I used to consider you an intellectual equal. Now what are you? The hero with a HEART. Disappointing." Moriarty seemed to love yelling about organs.

The Black King crouched down to the White King, practically frothing at the mouth "The answer, honey, is _me_."

Sherlock blinked. Realization crashed down. "The taxi driver, the Black Lotus Tong, Adler, no doubt you had ties in Baskerville too," he whispered.

"You're so _stupid_ ," Moriarty scoffed, chuckling. "Your brain has simmered into nothing. Your life is barely worth it anymore. Shame, really. I should bring a plant into the room, to make up for all the oxygen you're wasting."

"Dead is the new sexy, after all. At least that's what I've heard," Sherlock tested Moriarty.

Moriarty laughed. "We're the dead ones, you and me."

Sherlock flinched. "Ghosts," he whispered. The chess analogy came to mind.

"What?" Moriarty leaned closer.

"Ghosts," Sherlock repeated distinctly, "And chess."

"You're losing it," Moriarty rolled his eyes, tossed the coin up in the air and grabbed it.

"You wanted to kill me. So I would die in disgrace. What's changed?" Sherlock muttered.

"I was wrong, remember?" Jim hissed. "You're not ordinary. You're me."

"But you… You killed yourself."

"Yes."

Sherlock pressed dried, cracked lips together. "What exactly are you trying to prove… in all of this?"

"This?" he motioned to Sherlock's tied hands. "Is to get you out of the way. While I burn you, London burns. I already told John. How there'd be bombs."

"I know."

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm going to destroy the western world. Then it'll all be mine. All the places I broke into? Remember that? They'll be mine. The crown will sit on my head," Moriarty smiled.

"You don't need it," Sherlock snarled.

"No."

"You're insane, then."

"You're. Just. Getting, That. NOW?" Moriarty shouted into Sherlock's face. Flecks of spit lay on pale skin.

"No, no. In fact, I counted on it," Sherlock gave a 'I know something you don't' smile. "I counted on you being so _insanely_ focused on me, you'd miss the information walking right out of your hands and into the police. The authorities already know about the bombs. In fact, they're probably on their way now. They know where we are."

Anger flicked across his face. He understood. "Adler!" Moriarty shouted.

"Yes, the Woman. She rarely disappoints," Sherlock smirked. "No doubt she stole my coat. There's a message inside on how to stop you. She'll be discovering it soon, if not already."

"I'm moving you." Pulling out a key from his coat, Moriarty undid the handcuffs and bindings constraining the detective. "Johnson! Smith!" The Idiots stood at command. "Get Sherlock into the car. We're going somewhere else."

They grabbed Sherlock at either side, hauling him to his feet. The lanky form swayed. Dizziness overtook him, and he almost collapsed to the ground if it wasn't for Johnson's rough grasp. _Blood loss. Starvation. Parched thirst._ The last time he ate was when John was dragged him to the bar, and he ate a few French fries. God, that felt like years ago. Just the slight movement of standing up jolted his senses and burned his injuries. The bullet wounds screamed, and the cracked ribs protested. Tiny black dots danced on the edge of his vision like annoying insects. He body had a falling sensation, as he approached a dark void. Sherlock didn't realize he'd fallen to the floor until unfamiliar hands dragged him along the concrete. They left the Room of Hell, and entered a halleay, which ended in a hanger of some enough for a couple planes, maybe. They approached a black Mercedes. His hazy brain registered the sound of a car trunk opening, with his tall figure forced inside. Then, it was black.

/

"I told you they would move him," said Irene.

What an odd sight they were. Irene Adler in the coat, Mycroft Holmes in his impressive suit, Lestrade in second day clothes, and Dollivan bringing up the rear. All in search for Sherlock Holmes. SWAT filed in first to the empty concrete room. Stains lined the floor with an appearance similar to rust; they knew better. Fresher blood pooled underneath a metal chair. Sherlock's blood. The minimalist room contained nothing else.

"This is a dead end," Mycroft admitted. Hearing it from a genius didn't make it any easier to process: they'd failed.

"You don't see _anything_?" Lestrade said in disbelief. For some reason, he expected the older Holmes to be more like Sherlock, picking up a scent and insulting the intelligence of everyone around him.

"Oh I can read plenty, but nothing relevant to the chase," Mycroft sighed. "I'm not like my brother to insult Scotland Yard."

Lestrade wanted to laugh. Of course Mycroft Holmes could read his mind. "Any ideas?" he looked at Adler.

She shoved her hands into her pockets and shrugged. Then a bewildered expression overtook her, and she pulled a crumpled paper from the Belstaff. "What the…" Unfolding it, she revealed Sherlock's penmanship in a hastily scrawled note. Irene read aloud, "Hurry. Moriarty will bomb London and the Western World. Only John can kill him."

"Only John?" Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed. "What the hell? Why?"

Mycroft's mobile beeped, and he pulled the iPhone from his pocket. "John's woken up. Let's go ask him."


End file.
